Courier
by agryu
Summary: /AC2/ His pouch bore their coin, his clothes the scarlet mark of their Order, but his eyes were ever elsewhere, fixed instead on the wings and the flight of their enemies.


Author's Note: Upon request by The BioCobra.

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**Assassin's Creed:**_ Courier_

The late afternoon crowd of Venice gave him a wide berth, flowing about him in an unspoken agreement, like water around rock. Cristoforo could not help but raise his head a little higher, the plume of his scarlet hat bobbing as he strode amongst the commoners. The pride of being a courier for the awe-inspiring House of Borgia was accented in his slightest of movements, in their crest that he carried like a religious icon. He had never, and would never speak of it perhaps, would never brag, but his silent satisfaction was relayed to all nevertheless.

The funds he held this day were intended for the merchant, Emilio Barbarigo, and he looked forward to striding into the Palazzo della Seta, was eager to be permitted into such an imposing building, the current center of commerce for the floating city. Though, he ceded, it was not the center by choice, not at least by the merchants and stall owners who muttered irritably of the taxes and dictatorial legislation that came from its reinforced walls. Even so, the palazzo was grudgingly respected, as were the noblemen and captains who filtered in and out of its arched recesses, hurrying to attend to errands both genuine and false.

His, however, was far from the latter, though he admitted that it always did make him a little nervous to carry such a weighty sum, particularly with the presence of those that swept silently through the city streets and over its misted rooftops; those nameless menaces seeking the more prosperous of townsmen, and helping themselves to bulging pouches. He did not fear them as much as he once had, perhaps, but instinct and past memories reminded him that they were something to be wary of all the same.

The first of times he had been entrusted with such a large amount of his masters' money, he had lost it to the Venetian dogs, and the scars across his back were more than enough to ensure that the event would never recur. He flinched at the mere thought of it, though took comfort in the fact that he had been far from the first to receive such a punishment. Due to such harsh consequences as those, his fellow couriers shied from the idea of delivering coin, opted instead for the carrying of information and messages, bearing only parchment and ink and wax, none of which the thieves of the canals desired.

Though this left them open to a predator of a much darker sort.

Cristoforo himself had only once seen the one he and his referred to by many whispered names of night terrors, the demon in white that seemed to prey on them for the sheer joy of the hunt. His fellow couriers who had only borne ducat when the shadow had attacked had been spared, but he shivered to think of those who had never returned, those who had been found with throats punctured, and with pouches lacking the letters of great importance they had been tasked to carry.

He rather involuntarily tightened a hold on the pouch masked behind the folds of his cape, releasing a determined breath and telling himself that if the phantom struck, he would be ready. He had never told his fellow couriers, but upon his second encounter with the thieves, he had found them to be more likable than their rough exterior allowed. The reasons for his confidence in carrying Borgia coin did not come from mettle, but simply from a pact of sorts he had formed with these men who lorded over the gutters and back alleys of Venice.

It had begun during another of his errands delivering money, and after the first sleight that had resulted in such a painful marring, he had been more cautious than usual of suspicious characters. The pouch marked by the crimson bull of the Borgia had pulled heavily at the cord at his waist, thus he had swiftly noticed the pressure leave him. He had frantically scanned the crowd, and only just managed to catch the blur of someone disappearing into an alley.

He had cried to the guards for help, had pounded through the streets after the thief, but the figure had merely climbed the side of a nearby building to escape, nimbly vanishing over the lip of the roof. Enraged and dreading the bite of the lash he knew awaited him, Cristoforo had begun to follow without thinking, clumsily gripping and scratching at the bricks and sills of the house as he struggled towards its sky edge.

His nails and fingers had bled, and sweat had poured liberally down his face, but he had managed to make the climb surprisingly quickly, straightening on the slick tiles and glaring angrily around the landscapes of the rooftops for the pickpocket. To his surprise, the thief had stood waiting for him, a somewhat bemused smile on her – yes, _her_ – pretty face, and his pouch proffered to him in a rough hand.

Rosa, her name had been, this lady thief who had commended his gall, or had at least sounded somewhat impressed past her laughingly given insults of his gawky technique. His embarrassment had been hot and evident as he snatched his money back, but the young woman had posed a simple question that had made him pause in some curiosity, a suggestion he was now glad he had taken up.

"_Would you like me to teach you?"_

After this, he was never sure how she managed it, but for every errand that sent him into the five districts, she always found him; waited for him perched upon a rafter or balcony, and called for him to 'come on, _idiota_,' before flicking off over the rooftops. The invectives were numerous and varying as he struggled to keep up with her, but he grew used to them over time, deciding a little reluctantly that the swear words and insults were her brand of affection.

These sessions continued, and over the weeks, he learned quickly and well, soon improving enough to keep pace with Rosa even during Venice's chronic rains. Along with his mood and endurance, his success in his deliveries drastically improved as well. His superiors could never understand it, but any letter or funding set into his hands reached its destination so much more quickly than in the hands of any other, they not realizing the drastic time difference between traversing the city's crowded streets, and from flying instead over its rooftops.

This method was neither safe nor assured, however, and Cristoforo frowned irritably at the memories of his run-ins with the local archer guards. They were never tolerant, taking no heed of his stammering insistence that he was on their side, that he was only upon the rooftops for official business. His explanations had always been drowned out by loud declarations of the city laws, and by loosed volleys of arrows.

He had always been forced to flee these encounters, suffering several nicks and bruises from the stone and wood projectiles sent his way, with the guards' crowing taunts following him far over the roof tiles as he dodged the booted feet that casually attempted to trip him, or the hands that grabbed at his clothes as they sought to throw him from the great height as 'punishment.' Graceless brutes, all of them.

Despite this, his apprehension of the archers and their bows came nowhere close to the dread he felt every time he caught a flicker of white flitting past chimneys or rooftop gardens; these fleeting glimpses usually only a ray of glanced sunlight, or the flashing wings of a pigeon, but his paranoia gripped him all the same. Rosa would laugh whenever he told her of these fears, but she would never tell him why. Though he attempted to assure himself with his skills in running and climbing, in escaping over tiles and walls, he wondered if it would be enough against the faceless, hooded shadow.

_Speak of the devil, and he shall come._

As he distractedly weighted the pouch at his waist, checking to make sure the amount he held had not depleted after passing through the crowded marketplace, a strike of adrenaline raised unbidden into his system, and in some confusion, he wondered why. Tensing and lifting his eyes from the satchel in his hand, his gaze fixed almost immediately on a still figure standing some distance ahead of him in the smoothly shifting crowd. The white-cowled one tilted his head slightly, as if pondering, unseen eyes seeming to piece clear through him.

Cristoforo's heart stopped, but his instincts did not fail him, and he was a little surprised to realize that he was already running, his body reacting purely on terror and on an innate impulse he did not realize he had. He shouldered rather rudely through the crowd, his breath hitching from fear and adrenaline as he fled the demon, practically sensing him following mere steps behind. He pivoted abruptly, skidding a little on the rain-washed stones to dodge into an alleyway.

Mind empty of any thought but to preserve his own life and well being, the courier latched onto the neat pillars of a low balcony, dragging himself up and continuing his flight across the low rooftop. Here, on the wide, empty expanse high above the streets, he could easily hear the quiet footfalls and breath of the shadow pursuing him, much closer than he had expected. Grunting quietly under his breath, he struggled to keep ahead.

However, he soon realized, he was merely a sparrow flitting uselessly to avoid the determined eye of an eagle, and it was not long into the chase when he finally felt the talons bite into him. He let out an involuntary yelp as powerful arms latched around his midriff, a great weight slamming into his back and driving him against the uneven tiles. Throat constricted with fear, he could say nothing as he rolled slowly onto his back, staring up at the figure now standing over him.

There was only silence as he lay motionless against the roof, half-propping himself up on his elbows and realizing a little distantly that he was clutching protectively at the pouch still affixed to his belt.

"Are you not going to beg for your life?" The voice was calm, and surprisingly young, and Cristoforo blinked a little at the polite question.

"…No," he managed to respond, realizing that, from his angle, he could quite clearly see the face of his captor, which was that of a man, and not of the demon he had expected. "Would… would begging even make any difference?"

"It would not," the other admitted, shifting into a casual stance, and folding his arms. All the same, Cristoforo refused to move, admittedly a little petrified and unable to believe that he was still alive. This one was human; true, but a threat all the same, the many slivers of knives and concealed blades glinting from all about his person.

There was a pause of silence before the man spoke again, "You are a strange one, aren't you? I have never met a Templar who sought the safety of the skies instead of the guards."

"A Templar? I… I am not a Templar," he said with some confusion, the term unfamiliar to his tongue. He swallowed hard before continuing a little brazenly, "I am simply a courier, noble lord, one who only wishes to be allowed to continue his errand in peace."

He wondered a little tightly if he was pushing his luck, realizing at the back of his mind that it was highly unlikely he would be left with both his life and his money, if either at all. However, a small smirk graced the phantom's lips, and Cristoforo was thoroughly startled as he was offered a hand, one that he tensely surveyed for any signs of a weapon. However, the man's stance was unthreatening and open, and the courier hesitantly accepted the assistance, climbing first onto one knee then his feet.

"I will not pursue you, courier, but consider this a debt owed," the other said lightly, meeting his eyes squarely with a measure of amusement. "You have skill, there is no doubt of that, something that I may have use for someday. If we meet again on different circumstances, do not flee. I will remember you."

As the hooded man turned, walking lightly towards the lip of the rooftop, the courier blurted, "My name is Cristoforo Corsellini, noble one. This… this debt will be paid, I swear it."

The other said nothing in response, only pausing long enough to offer a rather enigmatic smile, before leaping over the edge and out of sight. Cristoforo would not see him again in many years, but he did not forget, and it would be in the city of God that he would shed the mark and the uniform of the Borgia, and don instead the white cowl he had once feared, wholeheartedly repaying his debt with life and loyalty and blood.

Ending.

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Author's Note: I've always been rather intrigued by Borgia couriers. They can pick Ezio from out of a crowd more quickly than any guard, and they seem to be the best free-runners, after Assassins and thieves. I admit, they've outrun me several times during the course of the game.


End file.
